


This Was Home

by Slone13



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Asexual Character, Bisexual Kevin Day, Demiromantic Neil Josten, Demisexual Andrew Minyard, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Attempted Murder/Murder, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Trans Male Character, biromantic character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-03 15:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16328528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slone13/pseuds/Slone13
Summary: Aidan Molloy is a textbook PSU Fox—a talented reject from a broken home.In the face of fear and anger, Aidan is given a fighting chance after he’s recruited to play on Palmetto State University’s Exy team. Once the laughingstock of the nation, the PSU Foxes are now one of the top-rated Class I Exy teams in the country after their victory against the Edgar Allan Ravens.Aidan keeps as low of a profile as he can attempt to, something that might make a difference to his teammates, to his classmates, and to his dream to play Court one day. But when a teammate threatens to reveal his secret, Aidan’s whole world comes crashing down. It will take a lot of courage for Aidan to ignore the hate and show the world that he’s still the same young man he was before.In the end, those who stand beside him may surprise everyone, including Aidan.





	1. Chapter 1

He was a skeleton under the sickly green light of a buzzing streetlamp.  
  
It was the opening act, and the first swing had been an infinite one. There was no wavering in the line of the blow; he had accepted the consequences of wherever his fist landed long before he began the punch.  
  
Aeron Molloy went down, but before Boy—which was the temporary nickname he’d given the young man’s he was currently fist-fighting with—had time to form a plan of any sort of counter-action, he was back up again, fist smacking into him. Boy released a string of profanity so carried and pointed that Aeron was amazed that the words alone didn’t slay him. Knees met chests. Elbows rammed into faces. Then Boy grabbed the hood of Aeron’s hoodie and used it to throw him onto the hood of someone’s BMW.  
  
“Not my fucking car!” someone in the background snarled. A bystander. Some poor fat-wallet schmuck.  
  
Ripping Boy from the BMW, Aeron hit him hard.  
  
Several strides crunched across the parking lot. “Aeron!”  
  
Aeron turned his head in the slightest direction toward the voice, only for the fight to reel in fast-forward. This was not a play to be acted out; this was a real fight, with bloody teeth and bruised features.  
  
Someone sprang, from the peripheral vision of Aeron’s sight, seizing Boy’s arm in mid-swing. He still had fingers hooked inside Aeron’s mouth. Aeron had Boy by the bunch of his shirt’s collar, and Boy gripped the back of his skull with one white-knuckled hand. With a neat flick of his wrist, Boy smacked Aeron’s head off the driver’s door of the BMW. It made a sick, wet sound. Boy’s hand fell away at his side.  
  
Aeron moved slow, as if his mind and body had been cotton-stuffed. The same someone who had tried to restrain Boy earlier seized an opportunity to propel Boy away. Boy jackrabbited his legs on the pavement in an attempt to try and out-arm his holder.  
  
He looked bedraggled, a nasty bruise rising on his temple. Aeron spat a wad of saliva and blood off to the side and tilted his body so that his balance corresponded to his sight.  
  
Across the lot, one of the managers emerged from the side entrance of Exodus, a cellphone in hand. It was only natural for the police to be called for this sort of situation, but that was the last thing Aeron needed.  
  
“Aeron.” Someone said his name, as if they knew him. In this town, it wasn’t unlikely. Something pressed against the back of his shoulder. When Aeron looked, it was a hand. “Come on, man. Back up. This is bullshit.”  
  
Aeron knew who was speaking with him, but registered their attention to Boy, who jerked his chin to spit blood at the pavement.  
  
Aeron said, snarled, “This guy is such a piece of shit. Assholes like him should just rot.” This made Boy burst forward again. The young man holding him clamped his arms around Boy’s chest and had to drag him back.  
  
“This isn’t helping anyone,” they told him. “And it sure as hell isn’t helping you. Get your shit together and let’s go before Daniel calls the fucking cops.”  
  
“I’m not leaving until that pig-fucker apologizes.”  
  
“ _Aeron_.”  
  
Boy must have caught the conversation because, from across the lot, he shouted a string of words that Aeron would have probably used to describe him. It involved a lot of profanity and the phrase _fucking tranny_.  
  
It was apparent Boy wanted a certain reaction out of Aeron. It was also apparent that this was exactly what had happened.  
  
The young man holding Boy had to release him when he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep Boy back much longer. The hand on Aeron’s shoulder dropped. He was given a “I swear to God” before Boy was coming at him in full swing.  
  
Grabbing Aeron’s hoodie, Boy propelled him back toward Exodus and in the way of a decently-sized crowd of both pedestrians and customers that had begun to show up. And it only took Aeron a moment to get his feet under him. His knee found Boy’s gut. Doubled over, Boy snatched a hand toward Aeron and crashed his skull into Aeron’s face.  
  
The fight was dirty. At one point, Aeron went down and Boy kicked, hard, at his face. Aeron’s forearms came up to protect himself, but had had no practice with these kinds of fights, and so the toe of Boy’s boots met with the bridge of Aeron’s nose. The pop was audible. Blood oozed.  
  
For Aeron, there was no recollection of the second between getting kicked in the face and the police arriving. Red and blue flashed across the parking lot, lighting the back of the club for a second at a time. Someone was yelling. Something squeezed Aeron’s upper arm and hauled him upright to his feet.  
  
“Sir?” It was an officer who had him by the arm. “Boy? Are you alright?”  
  
Across the lot, another officer dragged Boy off, pulling his arms behind him in attempt to handcuff him.  
  
“Yeah,” Aeron said. “Yeah, I’m—bleeding.”  
  
Bleeding, in this case, was the cause of not being alright. Blood had poured from his nose, down his neck, and stained a good portion of his hoodie. It had dripped onto the pavement and was currently dripping onto the officer’s uniform.  
  
It wasn’t long before EMS arrived, and by then, the small audience that had gathered had been disbanded just as quickly. Aeron was cuffed with his hands in his lab and given medical treatment by the paramedics. His nose hadn’t been broken, only fractured, and a splint would have to do the job.  
  
A police officer, different from the two Aeron had already met, came up to him. He had out some sort of writing pad with a pen ready in his left hand.  
  
“My name is Officer Hynes,” he greeted. “We got a call about a public disturbance and potential assault. Can I get your name?”  
  
“If I’m being arrested, can I at least be given my rights?” Aeron asked.  
  
“I have no reason to arrest you,” Officer Hynes said. “I just need you to answer some questions about what happened here tonight, and then I can release you.”  
  
He lifted his bound wrists as a visual example. “Then why am I handcuffed?”  
  
“To assure your safety and mine.”  
  
Aeron wanted to remind the officer that he was the one who possessed a loaded gun. Instead, he said, “Aeron Molloy.”  
  
“And, in your words, how can you describe tonight’s events?”  
  
Aeron answered Officer Hynes’s question as best as he could. It had involved both boys being intoxicated (which he had left out for obvious reasons) and a one-word insult that had them brawling until their knuckles were raw and red. In hindsight, the fight had been pointless, if not unavailing. This only annoyed Aeron, who pressed his hands closed to that his nails dug into the flesh of his palms.  
  
Officer Hynes closed his booklet with the pen inside. “Alright,” he said. “Looks to me like a small hate crime.” Aeron’s blood simmered. “Now, I’m gonna let you off with a warning, understand? I don’t want to find you or him fighting with one another. Do you understand?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Aeron said.  
  
“Good.” He turned to another officer. “This kid’s clear. See if he’s got a ride home and discharge him, okay?”  
  
The other officer gave Aeron a once-over and complied.  
  
It took around a half hour before Aeron could collect his belongings and walk free. His nose was tender, and a pang of pain would spread every time he inhaled through his nose or sniffed just a little too hard.  
  
“You look like shit.”  
  
Kit Cheyenne stood on the edge of the parking lot, his form cast in shadow from the outward glow of Exo’s welcome sign. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and a can of Coke held in his hand. He’d painted his nails black, which was as much of a surprise as them not being painted at all.  
  
Aeron took the Coke from his hand and downed a generous amount before giving it back. “Thanks,” he said, “for backing me up back there. My fractured nose thanks you.”  
  
“Be glad you weren’t brought to the station.” He handed over the backpack to Aeron. “Here. I don’t think anything’s broken. Your pen might be.”  
  
The pen, in fact, was not broken, which Aeron was immensely relieved. He pressed the discharge button five times before holding it down and putting his lips to the shell’s top. He inhaled a mouthful of Pear Hibiscus. He exhaled through his nose, which stung considerably, before passing the pen over to Kit.  
  
As he spoke, thin plumes of smoke came from his mouth. “Think you could give me a ride home?”  
  
Kit nodded as he inhaled from the pen. He said, “No problem. You coming to practice tomorrow, then?”  
  
“We’ll see.”  
  
The ride from Exodus to Aeron’s home took longer than it should have. On the way, Kit had stopped at a twenty-four-hour convenience store to buy a pack of Menthols. The two of them split the pack and smoked until Aeron’s apartment came into view. A silhouette at the kitchen window drew aside the curtains to look at Kit’s Passat as he parked across the street.  
  
Kit pulled up the handbrake. “Home sweet home.”  
  
Aeron reached in the back for his backpack. “Thanks for the ride.” He climbed out, but before he could close the door, Kit said something to him. “What?”  
  
“Tomorrow—Coach wants us there seven a.m. sharp. I know you said ‘maybe,’ but just come.”  
  
Aeron’s hands worked on the straps of his backpack. “The minute I step on campus, I’m gonna get sent to the counselor’s office. I don’t need people thinking Oliver beats the shit out of me.”  
  
“But he doesn’t,” Kit said. “That jerk did. Just say you were practicing at the shelter and things got out of hand.”  
  
Aeron didn’t comment on that. He said, “I’ll see what I can come up with. Thanks, again.”  
  
“No problem, man. See you tomorrow.”  
  
Aeron knocked on the roof of the Passat and stepped back as Kit pulled away. He made sure his breath didn’t smell that of cigarettes and convinced himself the blood on his clothes was beneficial to his pride.  
  
When he walked in, he was greeted by his brother’s voice. “Cheyenne called. He said you got in a fight with some kid at Exo’s?” Oliver was in the kitchen, but came around the corner at the word _fight_. “Christ.”  
  
“No,” he said instantly, which was an obvious lie. The bruises and blood stains spoke for themselves.  
  
Oliver gave him a look. It was a look that asked how Aeron, of all people, could be so stupid to think Oliver would fall for something so doubtlessly false.  
  
Aeron said, unrepentant, “Yes.”  
  
“Aeron, you can’t do shit like that. You’re in college now. You need to start acting like it.”  
  
Adrenaline still burned in Aeron’s veins, and so he was met with the option of either wanting to retract himself from the conversation and take a run around the block or drop everything and kiss his brother’s cheek with his fist. He chose neither and simply stood in place, the frigid air from outside sending goosebumps up and down his arms through the open door.  
  
Oliver said, “Come inside and close the door.”  
  
Aeron came inside and closed the door behind him.  
  
“He called me a fucking tranny.” He turned on Oliver. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I thought people would be a lot more accepting, but I guess we were both wrong.”  
  
“I don’t care if it was about you or him not liking you. You have an obligation to do better than get into fights. I didn’t raise you this way.”  
  
Hurt and anger warred furiously inside Aeron. “That’s right, you didn’t raise me. The Bullocks and Goggins and Weinbergs and the fucking Joneses did.”  
  
“You’re acting like this is all my fault,” Oliver said. “I’m not Dad, Aeron. I’m not the one who smashed a bottle against your head when you were seven. I'm not the one who made you into some personal ash tray.”  
  
The air held its breath.  
  
Aeron knew Oliver had gone too far. He knew Oliver knew it, too, because when he told him to fuck off, Oliver closed his eyes.  
  
Aeron shoved the door open and slammed it closed behind him. At that moment, as he skipped the bottom step of the front porch, Aeron hated himself. He hated who he was and what he was, bark peeled away to reveal stained and insect-eaten wood. He hated his hideous father and his permissive, absent-minded mother and most of all, he hated the sound of Oliver’s last words.  
  
He still had the scar, a crescent-shaped line from the hairline of his forehead to the back of his skull. His hair covered the ugliness of it, but it was a forever-reminder just how hated he had been and just how unwanted he was.  
  
The sound of the front door opening set Aeron’s nerves aflame.  
  
“Where are you going?” Oliver shouted out. “Where do you have to go?”  
  
When Aeron really thought about it, the question dazed him. He had nowhere else to go besides here. He knew Kit would offer up his couch, but that would only last so long before either his parents or Kit himself got sick enough of him being around. He was full of so many wants and things that Aeron found himself turning back. This was the only place he knew where to go, because here he wouldn't have to worry frays in his clothes or ruts in the carpet.  
  
Oliver let Aeron inside, but they did not speak to one another. Aeron dropped his backpack in one of the chairs at the dining room table before heading straight for his room.  
  
There was an envelope on his pillow, unopened. When Aeron went to pick it up, he noticed the clash of bright orange where the return address was and he knew instantly this letter was for him. He tore the flap open with his thumb and slipped the contents out. 

>   
>  _Aeron S. Molloy,  
>  _  
>  _The Palmetto State University Exy Staff are interested in becoming better acquainted and actively recruiting you to attend Palmetto State University (PSU). We would like to introduce you to PSU.  
>  _  
>  _With small classes taught only by professors, numerous internship opportunities and highly successful alumni who actively mentor undergraduates, students are offered a wealth of opportunities that will put them on the path to success in both their personal and professional lives.  
>  _  
>  _We have enclosed a student-athlete questionnaire for you to complete and return in the self-addressed envelope. We would also like to request a copy of your Exy schedule.  
>  _  
>  _Please feel free to give us a call (864) 656-3311 or drop us an e-mail anytime, dwymack@palmettostate.edu.  
>  _  
>  _Sincerely,  
>  _  
>  _David Wymack  
>  _  
>  _Head Coach_

  
Aeron tossed the letter aside. It hit the other wall by his closet and crumble to the floor. This had been the third letter this past month, and they were all the same, but it wasn’t something Aeron considered ever following through with. It was the same want and ache and the same crude judgment of who he was and who he was meant to be.  
  
David Wymack, whoever the fuck he was, could kiss his ass.  
  
Aeron would refuse to sign to anyone.


	2. Chapter 2

**A** eron still could not understand how the Jackdaw Crows, the team he currently played for and helped captain, ever made it to championships the year prior. Contrary, rumor had it they never did make it to championships. Instead, the Jackdaw Crows had been qualified as one of the lowest-ranking teams in the opening round, willing to compete in a preliminary round game to determine the final automatic qualifying spot for the first round.

Aeron still could not understand how the Jackdaw Crows, the team he currently played for and helped captain, could have ever been rumored to make it to championships the year prior. They'd been one of two lowest-ranked automatic qualifiers determined by the committee, regardless of the conference RPI.

That evening, Athene College's Owls won. Rumor had it the previous Jackdaw Exy coach bribed his players to allow Athene to win.

It was guessed that there was a gambling element to the whole ordeal, one with international Exy games witnessing vast sums wagering repeatedly to fix matches.

Rumor had it.

Since then, the previous coach had resigned. When he did step down, Raven alumni Anna Howe took over. She was the kind of coach who transferred over her own training from Castle Evermore, which meant the Jackdaw Crows were now Raven chicks. Her cold personality was a turn-off but her skill and commitment meant the team was willing to work with and listen to her.

Coach Howe never interfered in any fights between players. She allowed them to brawl whatever they had against each other out and then punished them for disturbing the peace, and her coaching. The punishments were never rigorous, but they were always a team effort. The collective punishment hadn't gone unnoticed, and a segment in the campus newspaper nearly outed the consequences. It was madness at first, but as the season progressed, all accusations had been swept under the rug.

Aeron spent the majority of the morning jogging the perimeter of the running track south of the fitness building. He had an hour to spare before morning practice started, so he ran and then ate lunch at the on-campus Subway, and then headed over to the stadium. He made sure he showed up early enough so he could change into his uniform in private before the rest of the team arrived.

The locker smelled of sweat and mildew. Someone had forgotten to replace the towels by the showers or someone had forgotten to wash their own gear and things had begun to grow on them.

When it was time to go out on the court, Aeron was pulled aside by Coach Howe’s assistant coach Jeremy Harris. “I don’t think I need to remind you,” he told him, “of off-campus brawling. How’re things at home, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” Aeron said. He twisted the straps of his shoulder padding, making sure it was snug enough and not too tight. “Everything’s fine.”

Harris looked skeptical, because his file deemed Aeron a skeptical creature. But he patted him on the back and told him to join the others at half-court.

Aeron hooked his helmet beneath his arm as he tried inching his hands into his outer gloves. Anthony Higgins brought out a bucket of balls while Cynthia Lewis rolled out the stick rack. The racquets weren’t arranged in any particular order, only that each player had chosen their own way to mark one as theirs, which granted Aeron picking up a deep-net racquet with a blue hairband double-knotted around its upper shaft.

Kit played as a goalkeeper, and so he required one of the two flat racquets there was available. He switched hands with it and twirled it around. Aeron knocked sticks with him out of good nature.

The team stretched and then jogged for the first ten minutes of practice, running laps alongside the inner court walls. Every step taken caused the beaten half of Aeron’s face to ache. He clenched his jaw and regretted signing his pharmaceutical rights away.

The rest of practice sorted itself out into some kind of high-tension exploitation. Rayko Celestine, the team’s starring striker and Raven extraordinaire, knew more about the sport than most of the sophomores he accompanied ever would. But his stint when he and his brother trained with the Ravens the season prior gave the two of them a sense of authority among the team. And it was no secret that Rayko and Aeron hated each other.

It only got worse half an hour into practice when Aeron was slammed into the court wall, Rayko’s racquet pressed against his chest, during a mock gameplay. Aeron shoved him back hard enough to knock him back a couple of steps. The handful of words they exchanged singed what little self-restraint either of them had for each other because when Rayko ignored Rumen to say something to Aeron, Aeron responded by throwing a closed fist at his face.

Practice wasn’t even half-over before Aeron and Rayko were brawling.

Rayko Celestine was a foul contributor to the Jackdaw Crows. He had a refugee’s face, hollow-eyed and innocent. His smile was lazy and lewd when he said in Aeron’s ear, “You’re dead, lady. _Dead_.”

Aeron was tempted to kick Rayko’s knee in, but Kit swung his racquet up and pushed Rayko back.

“Back off, maddog,” Kit said.

He wasn’t sure why, perse, but every inch of Aeron’s skin itched with useless anticipation. He jabbed the toe of his shoe into the astroturf, digging up faux layover. Rayko’s brother Rumen Celestine stood off to the side between half-court and the third quarter line. Aeron avoided Rayko’s eyes for his.

“Rayko,” Rumen said. “Come on.”

“Whatever.”

Sometimes, depending on his state of mind, Aeron would forget why he enjoyed Exy as much as he put up with it. And then he would remember restless and bloody nights. He would remember crooked skin and empty eyes. He would remember bare hopes and empty mouths.

He would remember how Exy came to be such a distraction in his life, and how it was such an exhilarating release. It was the anger and the emotion that he could put behind a swing and the protection his armor gave him when he was on the court.

The remainder of practice consisted of rebound shots before Coach Howe decided enough was enough and had them collecting cones and stray balls.

The showers were communal, so Aeron kept to the sidelines until everyone had finished. Kit didn't wait for him, and was already done by the time Aeron took his turn. He dried off and dressed in a pair of ripped bluejeans and a pink Pinky's T-shirt. When Aeron dropped his uniform off in the hamper by the lobby doors, Coach Howe stopped him.

Aeron did not have a first period to attend, and so he didn't have to leave anywhere in particular for another hour and a half.

"Aeron," she said, "how come I didn't see you at practice yesterday? Or the day before?”

He said, "I had a family emergency. I couldn't make it."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thanks," Aeron responded, doubting the sincerity of the comment.

Coach Howe reached a hand into the right pocket of her sweatpants and took out a fresh Camel pack. She stripped back the lining, crumpled up the plastic, and took out a cigarette. She didn't have a lighter on him, so Aeron lit the end of it for her.

"Am I gonna expect you this Friday, then?" she asked. "Or are you gonna have another family emergency?"

"It's hard to tell," Aeron said, looking back at the double doors that led to the court. "But I'll try to make it. For the team."

Jackdaw was not known for their Exy team. Rather, most of the board's funding went toward the performing arts and its academics. The rest was juiced out to all the other clubs and sports teams, which granted the Exy team a sliver of profit. Most of the time, when they weren't losing, the ticket costs were bumped up twice as high to cover equipment maintenance.

This Friday would be Jackdaw's last chance for state championships, but it was evidential that they wouldn't be able to make it. They had lost the previous game, which was enough to put them back a considerable amount. This Friday wouldn't be enough, and Coach Howe knew that. She'd already called a crew to dismantle the court after next week's game.

"For the team, yeah." Coach Howe drew in a breath and blew it out away from Aeron, which he appreciated. "Also, there's someone here who would like to speak with you. It's about your recruitment."

"My—what?"

"I wanted to catch you before you went to class," Coach Howe said. "Well, _he_ wanted to catch you before you went to class. And you have an hour."

Yes, Aeron had an hour. An hour and—he checked the clock that hung on the opposite wall—seven minutes. But he didn't want to spend that time talking with some guy from some college with some intention to recruit him. Aeron didn't need recruiting; he'd been doing fine without getting noticed.

Coach Howe added, "They'll be staying until Friday to see you play."

The word _they_ indicated that there was more than one, but Aeron only saw a single stranger. He stood in the threshold of the doors that led to the court, his arms folded over his chest, covered in tribal flame tattoos. Tucked under one of his arms was a file. Aeron's heartbeat surged.

Coach Howe saw him and went to smudge out her cigarette. She shook hands with him. "It's good to see you," she told him. "Glad you could make it."

"Hell of a flight," the stranger said. His brown eyes found Aeron's icy blue ones. "I'll keep this short. My name's David Wymack, the coach for Pal—"

“Palmetto State Foxes,” Aeron interrupted him. “I know. You guys’re famous. Why’re you here?” It didn’t make sense why a Class I team wanted anything to do with him; he’d made damn sure not to attract so much as a look from others, and lo and behold—a recruitment.

Coach Howe sent Aeron a look of wary concern. “Aeron,” she said carefully, “he’s here because I sent him your file. Didn’t you get my email?”

No, Aeron did, in fact, not get an email.

Aeron was vocal about it, emphasizing on its uncouth timing. Wymack agreed.

“This isn’t the best of times,” he agreed, “but I’m short on strikers and you had the better stats. I wanted to do a face-to-face. Something profession. But I can’t really wait.” Wymack unfolded his arms and handed Aeron’s own file over to him. “You’re approved for a transfer program, but Coach Howe here says you haven’t chosen a transfer school yet, which makes my job that much easier. Joining a team wasn’t necessarily your plan, from what I read, but I can make an exception. I just need your signature.”

Aeron’s heart vacated his chest cavity. It wasn’t necessarily being recruited that bothered Aeron, but rather the choice in the matter. Obviously, Wymack wanted him, but Aeron had the option of declining or accepting his offer. He wanted his, however; something he’d hoped would happen since he started playing freshmen year five years ago. The only thing that worried a hole in his conscious was the fact that he would be abandoning Oliver, someone he’d been dependent on for the majority of his young adult life. Leaving Oliver would mean leaving everything. I would be stepping out of this bubble he’d made for himself, a safe-haven of sorts.

It would mean Oliver wouldn’t be able to protect Aeron anymore.

Aeron took the folder from Wymack and opened it. The first thing there was, was the contract that he needed to sign if he wanted to hand himself over to Wymack’s team. He was curious to see who Wymack had been researching before visiting, because chances were, it wouldn’t be the same Aeron Molloy. It would be an Edmeé R. Mauvezin if he delved deep enough, supposing a university coach had the time and the means of digging up dead names. But when Aeron flipped to the last few pages, he found the name Margaret R. Jones instead.

He tossed the file onto the bench. “Can I think about it? This is kind of pressing.”

“There’s nothing pressing about it. Doesn’t seem you have anything else to worry about.”

If only he knew.

Aeron needed to hear Oliver say no.

“I need to talk with my parents, first.”

Wymack raised an eyebrow. It was in such a way that Aeron knew that Wymack knew that he was lying. He had no doubt he’d read Aeron’s file, and any mention of his parents stopped at around the end of middle school. The only parental figure he had was Oliver.

“What for?” Wymack asked. “You’re nineteen, aren’t you? You’re legal.”

Aeron was legal, but he needed as much time between now and Friday’s game if he wanted a clear decision on what he was going to do.

He said, “Yeah, but I still need to ask.”

“I’m sure they’ll be happy for you.”

“Okay.”

Wymack looked over at Coach Howe. “Could you give us a couple minutes? I promise I’ll be quick.”

Coach Howe looked between Wymack and Aeron. She made her back a little straighter before tucking her hands into the pockets of her sweat pants. “I’ll be outside. Holler if you need me.” She said the last part to Aeron before she left. Aeron waited for the double doors to click behind her.

When it was just Wymack and Aeron in the locker room, Aeron’s initial fight and flight instincts tightened their grip around his chest, squeezing until his anxiety became a physical manifestation of pressing his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He gave himself a mental check.

Wymack turned a solemn look onto him. His voice was even when he asked, “Do you need your coach or me to talk to your parents for you?”

A crease formed between Aeron’s brows? “Why?”

“Look, I’m not gonna sugar-coat it for you, all right?” His voice rose in the slightest. “You have a history with violence, which isn’t surprising for someone with your background. You’ve got a face full of cuts and bruises and a busted nose. Frankly, I’m surprised your coach hasn’t already sent you to the counselor’s office. So, again: are your parents going to be a problem for you?”

The answer came out fast than Aeron meant it to. “No,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“They didn’t—they won’t,” Aeron told him. “I got into a fight with some kid. We fought. He broke my nose. That’s it.”

“Your parents know?”

“Yeah.” And, then, “I get that I might fit whatever your criteria is, but why me? I’m sure there’s plenty of fucked up players out there who’d love to play on your line.”

Wymack nodded. “And there were. We chose a few, and you’re one of ‘em. Is that such a problem?” Aeron didn’t think so. “Besides, your file was sent to me anonymously. That, in itself, is worth the visit. You still got a ways to go before meeting Court, but this isn’t some publicity stunt, kid. I’m tryin’ to give you a second chance.”

Aeron had never been one to take compliments well, and so he stared at Wymack with a blank look on his face.

“Are your parents going to be a problem?” he repeated.

“No,” Aeron said.

“Okay.” Wymack gave Aeron’s file a begrudged look. “Your classes end in May, so make sure you have your coach fax the signed papers to me. I hope this can be a yes for you, kid.”

Aeron instinctively glanced at the clock on the other side of the wall. His class started in less than ten minutes. He picked up his file and handed it to Wymack, keeping the contract.

"Thanks," he said. Aeron unzipped his backpack and put Wymack's paperwork in it, stuffing it between two inverted binders for his remaining classes today.

He exited through the front foyer, not bothering to tell Coach Howe that their conversation had come to an end, for now. He followed the concrete path around the outer edge of the field and toward the language arts building.

Aeron thought, _This is it_.


End file.
